Descent
by Demus
Summary: What if Ford’s drinking became a problem? What if his few entries became too tiresome for the Guide offices to care? What if, in the approaching darkness, he saw no way to escape? Rated for language and mention of addictions, alcoholism, rape and death
1. Angel in the Dark

Disclaimer: I do not own HHGTTG.

**WARNING**: Very very dark angstyness up ahead. Completely **OOC**, completely **AU**, could never happen in the HHGTTG Universe. Rated for **language** and mention of **addictions**, **alcoholism**, **rape** and **death**. You have been warned.

If you don't like any of those themes or suggestions of that sort in the HHGTTG I suggest you leave now. This means that you don't get hurt and I don't get hurt when you leave a review saying 'OMFG THAT WOULD NEVER HAPPEN YOU SICK BITCH GO AND DIE I HATE YOU!' etc

DARK THEMES UP AHEAD. IF YOU HAVEN'T REALISED BY NOW YOU ARE EITHER THICK AS TWO SHORT PLANKS OR DON'T READ AUTHOR NOTES.

This is an exploration of a particular idea- what if Ford's drinking became a problem? What if his few entries became too tiresome for the Guide offices to care? What if, in the approaching darkness, he saw no way to escape?

* * *

When he awoke, his room was dark. With his partner for the night gone, the bed felt huge, the sheets icy-damp with sweat and other fluids. They clung to him as he lay there, sticking to his unclean body like flies to a wound. He shifted a little, barely wincing as familiar pains needled him. He woke like this almost every morning now. Alone. Cold. Empty. His skin burning with the bruises of a night spent with someone whose face he didn't know, whose name he'd never asked. The impression of a stranger's teeth at the crook of his neck. Used. Lifeless. Worthless. Alone. 

He heard the door sigh open. Someone walked up to the bed. Looked at him. He didn't open his eyes. He knew what he would see- pained grey pools, desolate and angry, aching with misery. No recrimination, no blame, just helpless frustration and resigned acceptance. The sheets were pulled away from him and he felt gentle hands moving a soft wet cloth over the shame-encrusted filth of his skin, cleaning away the surface stains, cleaning away the evidence of his sinful crimes. Hands that never judged, never hurt. Hands that, if only for a while, could keep him safe from himself.

The person moved away, briefly, and he strained his ears to hear where they had gone, still refusing to open his eyes. He felt no relief when they came back. He never did. They always came back. What would it matter if they didn't?

A voice was crooning whispered words to him as his wounds were cared for. He almost felt like crying. Almost. He didn't deserve the release of tears. He simply lay, a scarred statue under the tender care of the unseen angel. The soothing balm of the compassionate touches seared into his foul being like holy light through a wailing demonic chorus. Eventually, it was over. Warm clothes were drawn about his vulnerable naked self and the damp sheets were replaced with new, dry ones.

The warmth penetrated his muscles, but nothing came close to his craven heart. He simply lay in the dark as his saviour quietly left. And, with last night's evils lingering in the air around him, Ford Prefect rose and left his room in search of alcohol to blaze the memories from his mind.

* * *

Arthur sighed as Ford stumbled into the kitchen area, completely ignoring the human, and grabbed a bottle of cheap whisky from one of the cupboards. His friend was in a permanent zombie-like state these days, trudging from one barren day to the next, endlessly out of his mind on booze and casual sex. Since losing his job at the Guide office, the Betelgeusian had slipped further and further into a depression, fuelled by failure and firewater, free woman and fixes. 

Arthur had tried everything to get his friend to open up to him, even paying a counsellor to talk to him. Nothing had worked and now Ford merely faltered through the twilight zone at the edge of existence, hovering between the living and the dead. Every evening that he could walk he would wander off, whichever planet they happened to be on. Every night he would come back with a stranger's arm about his waist, all the fight and fire dimming in his eyes. Every morning Arthur would go into his room to try and erase the damage, treat the wounds, change the fouled sheets. Every day the whole bloody thing would start again.

He didn't know how much longer he could take it. How much longer could he stand by and watch this: his friend, the man who had saved him, the man he'd cursed for saving him, the man he'd loved in silence for far too long… The human slumped and put his face in his hands, crying meaningless tears for a soul teetering on the threshold of destruction.

* * *

Hours passed. Time didn't really have meaning anymore. Hours became days became weeks and he was still worthless. He slumped on the bed, the nefarious centre of his contamination. His eyes were fixed on the clear amber liquid in the bottle. Strange that once its siren song had been a simple pleasure to be indulged. He took a gulp, gasping as the cheap booze scorched his throat. He was now slave to its false embrace, a comfort that bled him as it held him, draining his life away. But not fast enough. Never fast enough. It was an agonising descent. Was this madness? 

He heard the door sigh open. This time he looked up, barely recognising the shape of his angel. He raised the bottle to toast it and took another raw gulp. The indistinct shape came forwards and placed something on the cabinet beside the bed.

"I brought you something to eat," came a voice. He glanced to the side and saw the plate. He grunted and his grip on the bottleneck tightened.

"Ford…"

He shook his head violently at the sound of what was once his name. That person was dead. He lived (barely living) in Purgatory now.

"Please," the voice sounded desperate, distressingly dejected. "Please, try to eat it. You haven't had anything for days."

He didn't need to eat anymore. Only people worthy of life could eat. He stared up at the angel towering over him. Didn't it understand? Why couldn't it see that he didn't exist anymore?

The being sighed and placed a gentle hand on his cheek. He recoiled from the touch. _Don't, you'll be contaminated._

"Just try." With that, it left. He watched it go, at once wanting it to stay and share his damnation and at the same time needing it to leave and never return to him. He looked again at the plate of food. The ache in the pit of his stomach worsened as the aromas wafted through the air towards him. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to fight the urging of his recreant flesh. The pain in the angel's voice came back to him and he sat up sluggishly, reaching out to the plate. For his saviour, he would try.

* * *

It was late. Arthur checked the ship's instruments- after midnight. He resumed pacing around the console room. He knew it would make no difference- his continual worrying would do no good. Ford would be back- blind drunk and hanging off something's arm. But he couldn't help it. He'd known Ford for years and there was always a fear in him that one night, the Betelgeusian wouldn't come back…And no matter how broken he was, Arthur didn't think he could face the Universe knowing that his best friend was dead. 

_Best friend…_ Those two little words that hurt more than all the broken hearts in the world. Best friends looked out for each other, protected each other. Best friends were competent enough to keep each other safe from harm- whatever form harm took. Just as Ford was coping with his failure at work, Arthur struggled with his failure as a friend.

The Earthman stopped pacing and stood with his head against the wall, trying to soothe his whirlwind emotions. Nothing could have halted Ford's rapid downward spiral. He had to believe that. He had to believe it to keep himself from going mad.

He heard the boarding ramp swing open and, in the deserted corridors, the sound of footsteps. Composing himself, fixing a stony mask over his troubles, Arthur left the bridge.

He hurried to Ford's room, stopping dead in the doorway. The Betelgeusian was leaning heavily on the wall, seemingly unable to stand without its support. There was no other being in sight. Ford's head was bowed and his body hunched over. His shoulders were quivering and he seemed to be fighting against some unseen agony. Arthur rushed to his side and grabbed his arm to bolster him up, reaching out to touch Ford's face. He gasped in shock- the pale skin felt red-hot under his fingers and was covered in sweat. The Betelgeusian was moaning quietly, his hands clutched to his stomach, his entire body spasming with pain. Arthur put his arms around him and hefted him up a little further so he could easily assist him to the bathroom.

As he predicted, Ford barely made it to the toilet facility before he was vomiting violently, groaning under the assault on his gut. Arthur knelt next to him, gently rubbing his back and holding him upright. The meal Ford had consumed earlier had evidently been too much for his system, along with the lying amber-poison he had been continually throwing into his body.

When he was finished, Arthur tenderly helped Ford to his feet and cleaned him up a little with a cloth. The Betelgeusian finally looked at him, his eyes blood-shot and oozing odd tears. He seemed to be having difficulty focusing, unsurprisingly, but he managed to look straight into Arthur's face. His brow was furrowed in confusion and there was a strange fear in his expression that overrode the blank emotionless façade that he had presented ever since losing his job.

His lips pursed as Arthur half-dragged half-carried him to his bed and laid him onto it. He kept his gaze fixed on the human's face and opened his mouth to speak. Arthur leaned in to listen- he hadn't heard Ford's voice for some time now. "A-Arthur…" he croaked, uncertainly.

"Yes, it's me," Arthur replied, feeling his eyes stinging a little. He took Ford's hand and clasped it tightly. "I'm here."

Ford coughed convulsively and closed his eyes, his right hand still clutched to his stomach. Arthur grabbed a glass of water from the bedside cabinet with his free hand and placed it to Ford's lips, tipping it so a little of the liquid wetted them. Ford took the smallest of sips and tried to turn away, coughing weakly again. "Arthur," he whispered, so quietly that Arthur had to lean in even closer to make out the word. "I'm s-sorry." With that, he fainted dead away.

As he sat there, trying to figure out what his friend meant, Arthur heard a heavy tred outside the room. He leapt up and span around as a hulking shape blotted out the light from the doorway. He gulped nervously- so Ford had brought someone home with him again. This had been the reason for his fear.

The large alien stepped fully into the room and appraised him with neon blue eyes. The thing was tall and wide, a biped humanoid with large obvious muscles and burgundy skin. Its neck, chest and dog-like face were covered with a dense covering of fur and it towered over Arthur at a height of maybe seven feet. Its lower body was wrapped in a loincloth-esque sheet of rough material and its bare hands and feet were callused, gnarled and clawed. A long wolf tail was pointed straight out behind it, showing its annoyance. It pointed at the still form of Ford, baring sharp canines as it spoke. "I came for him. He owes me."

Arthur backed up as the creature came towards him, purposefully placing himself between it and Ford. "He's…He can't, he's sick," the Earthman said, quaveringly.

The thing snorted. "I don't care if he's zarking dying, I want what he promised me."

It didn't take a great leap of the imagination to work out what the creature was talking about. Arthur glanced to the bed and an icy knot of dread pulled at his insides. He knew that he couldn't stop the alien by force. He couldn't persuade it to leave. He couldn't halt its desires. He looked up into the creature's face, searching for a spark of sympathy in the drunkenly angry features.

Under his scrutiny, the thing stepped forwards, this time its posture aggressive. "You can't stop me taking what I want from him."

"Wait, please!" Arthur backed away again, his legs hitting against the bed. "You can't, he's no good to you in that condition!"

The alien paused and stared at him. Its eyes narrowed and an ugly smirk crossed its face. It looked him up and down slowly. The human fidgeted uncomfortably under its inspection. Without warning, it lunged forwards, grabbing the lapels of his gown and yanking him forwards. Arthur yelped in surprise, his hands flailing helplessly as he was dragged into the large bulky body. He gagged as the muzzle was thrust into his face, choking on the overpowering reek of spirits.

"Listen, you pathetic excuse for a monkey," the creature snarled, its eyes sparking with rage and lust. "I'm going to fuck something on this bloody ship, and if its not him its you."

It released him and he staggered backwards, his breath coming in sharp, frightened gasps. He looked at Ford, seeing the vulnerability, the frailty of his friend. He knew what would happen if he stepped aside now. It would mean Ford's death. He squared his shoulders, his mind reeling at the mere thought of what he was about to do. "Take me," he said, simply, bowing his head submissively. "Don't hurt him. Please."

The creature grunted and Arthur stayed completely still as it began a circuit around him, its eyes still roving over his form as if he was an animal up for auction. The human tried not to shudder as one of the clawed paws traced the skin of his neck, just hard enough to leave a red mark, and slipped under the collar of his dressing gown, easing the plaid garment off his shoulders.

The creature gave an approving growl at his lack of resistance. It nodded sharply. "You'll do nicely. Where?"

Arthur, keeping his head down submissively, led the creature to the empty sleeping quarters next door to Ford's room and waited. The wolf-like beast lost no time in grabbing his shoulders roughly and pushing him onto the bed. It clambered on top of him, a delighted snarl starting up in its throat as it casually controlled him. Under its oppressive weight, Arthur fought to stifle his automatic panic response, willing his limbs to still against the adrenaline rush. As one of the massive paws began to touch his flesh again, Arthur started. "Wait," he said, his voice weak as breathing suddenly became a challenge. "I don't- I don't want him to hear."

The vulgar smirk on the creature's face widened. "Thus just gets better and better," it crooned as it ripped a thick length from the bedsheets and rolled it into a gag. It forced the twisted material into Arthur's mouth and tied it brutally tight. "No more waiting," it growled, it impatience beginning to show as it pressed down on top of him, "not another sound."

The human nodded and closed his eyes, biting down hard on the cloth as the Universe faded around him and the most intense humiliating pain filled his world.

* * *

When he awoke, his room was dark. He shifted under the warm sheets and sighed. Something strange…no pain. No foetid fluids clinging to his body. No cold. No pain. No new bruises. No marks of a stranger's teeth in his skin. He felt warm and safe. Though his head was pounding from the alcohol he'd drunk the night before, he felt…alive, for the first time in a long time. 

He sat up, slowly. No familiar twinges in his limbs- he could move without a constant ache in every part of him. He felt…clean. Free of dirt. He looked around- had his guardian already visited him? He concentrated hard, trying to remember the events of the previous night. He remembered drinking- he could feel the nauseating grip of the whisky wrapping itself around him. He remembered a face, harsh, predatory. He remembered staggering back through the streets, aware of someone following with dark intentions to invade and take. He remembered pain, sickness. He remembered comforting hands, gentle hands, caring for him, soothing him. His angel?

Looking around as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw a figure sat hunched over with its back to him, near the door. The figure's shoulders seemed to be shivering and he could hear muffled snuffling breaths, as if the person was trying to stifle some emotion or other. He called out to the person, knowing suddenly who his angel was. "Arthur?"

The figure straightened up suddenly- there was a hissing gasp of…pain? Surprise? The slim shape stood and walked awkwardly towards him, its steps hesitant and slow. He felt the bed yield under the weight of another person as his angel sat down gingerly. Strangely red-rimmed grey eyes stared deeply into his own. "Ford?"

His name. It was his and his alone. How strange.

"How do you feel?" Arthur raised his hand to touch his cheek, feather-light touches.

"Alive." He twisted away, not wanting to meet that calm gaze. His hand snaked out, reaching automatically for the abandoned bottle by the bedside. An iron grip clamped down on his wrist and he glanced up in shock. An uncompromising stare met his eyes.

"No more. This has to stop."

He was taken aback. He'd never been refused like that. There had been disappointment, yes, and that peculiar desperate gleam in troubled storm-grey eyes. But never refusal. He could hear the seductive lying whispers of the alcohol fizzling through the air around him, but he remained completely still, his hand held in the firm grip. He felt, suddenly, like he'd been falling and he'd just been caught.

"What?" his voice was still harsh, his throat a desert plain cracking under the heat of his voracious thirst.

Arthur released and stood, reaching down very deliberately to pick up the bottle. He turned it over in his hands a few times then hurled it violently against the wall, where it shattered into hundred of pieces, staining the floor with a bubbling venom. "No more," his voice was deadly calm, belying the sudden outburst of his pent-up emotions.

Ford gaped. His mind was reeling, the events of the past few minutes cycling around and around, confusing his already swirling thoughts. "I don't understand," he said eventually. "What happened to-" his brow furrowed as he sought the correct species name.

"The alien?" Arthur's head was up and he was staring at the broken bottle with a strange detachment in his eyes. "It…left. With some persuasion." The last phrase was spoken quietly, as if the human hadn't wanted it to be heard.

"It just left? It didn't…"

"No," the human said, curtly. He remained still, seemingly unwilling to look at Ford. His posture and stance were enclosed, defensive, and oddly nervous.

The Betelgeusian sat in silence. It was too much, everything was happening too fast for him to cope- he didn't want to start falling, so soon after he'd come to a stop…

"Its time to start again," Arthur suddenly stated, coming over to the bed again and holding out a hand to help him up. "A new beginning. For us both."

"I don't know if I can-"

"Neither do I. But we'll find out."

* * *

I warned you. And I don't like the ending. Comments and criticisms (apart from those modelled in the A/N) would be greatly appreciated. There will probably be a follow-up chapter, but probably not too soon. I go back to exams 


	2. Catch a Falling Star

Thank you, you very nice people who reviewed: Rowana S, MystikTears, Lurra, spirals, Elfgirl and 'n/a'.

Disclaimer: I do not own HHGTTG. I repeat the previous warnings- this is a **DARK** fic.

* * *

When he awoke, the room was dark. He lay in the warm embrace of the soft bed sheets, luxuriating in the delicious guilt of staying in bed for too long. He remained burrowed for a while, then stretched and snapped his fingers, causing the lights to fade into brightness. He yawned, blinking sleepily, and dragged himself out of his miniature kingdom to grab a shower. 

After being pelted for a good fifteen minutes by boiling hot water and massaged with specially installed pressure pads, Ford Prefect reluctantly exited the cubicle and dressed. He grinned, feeling Betelgeusian at last, and left the room in search of breakfast, Arthur, or both.

Breezing into the kitchen, his grin widened when he saw a plate of blue scrambled eggs laid out for him. He hurried to the table and tucked in happily, making appreciative noises at the explosion of flavour. He glanced up and gave the 'chef' a thumb's up.

The 'chef' snorted. "I'm surprised you even noticed I was here," Arthur said, snarkily, to which Ford chuckled.

"You don't have to do this," he reminded the Earthman. "I am quite capable of getting my own food."

Arthur snorted again. "You can burn salad, just by being in the same room as it. Shut up and eat."

Ford shut up and ate. It had taken weeks, arduous, agonising weeks of work, tears, shame, pain and anger, but here they were. Back to the way it had been- the gently scathing teasing, the not quite harmonious co-existence of a couple of hitchhikers, trying to see the Universe for less than thirty Alterian dollars a day. They didn't talk about it- they'd done enough of that to last a lifetime- but Ford knew he would probably be dead if not for the Earthman.

Arthur had been his rock, his support, his slave master and his comforter as he'd fought against his addiction and the depression that had rotted him from the inside like a foul cancer. The fire of his life had been re-kindled, but it hadn't been easy. There had been screaming fits, raging angry shouting matches. He'd said things he still regretted, things that he knew had bitten deep into his friend's being and lodged like the creeping fingers of Jack Frost in the delicate heart of a winter bloom. But it was over. He had his job back, he was once again a fully paid _Guide_ researcher, and his friend had been roped in for the job that on one else wanted- restaurant critic. Something menial and dull that suited the Earthman down to the ground.

The Betelgeusian glanced up from his meal as Arthur started coughing. The human had been having throat trouble for the past few weeks, something Ford had at first not noticed, so involved was he in his own struggle. The human assured him it was nothing serious, that he'd spoken to doctors about it but nevertheless Ford was a little worried. Arthur smiled weakly when his coughing fit ended and reached into a cupboard for a small bottle of viscous purple stuff, from which he took a spoonful, grimacing as he swallowed.

Ford watched him, his brow furrowed. "Look are you sure you're alright?" he asked, eventually. "You don't sound…"

"I'm fine!" Arthur reassured, turning his back to Ford as he replaced the medicine in the cupboard. "Aside from the decided lack of tea anywhere in this frotting galaxy!" The words were spoken with amused acceptance, but there was a rough edge to Arthur's voice that hadn't been there before. There was also a strange hesitance to his movement, the Betelgeusian realised, as if the human was judging his strength before any action.

He stood, carrying the plate to the cupboard that stored, organised and cleaned all items of crockery, and was also very interested in country dancing. No one had ever asked it why, since it had no legs, but it lived in hope of anyone asking, and it chirruped happily as Ford placed the grimy utensils in it. That done, Ford checked his watch. "I have to go see my editor," he said, suddenly remembering the mid-morning meeting. He dithered for a moment.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "So why are you still here?"

"Are you absolutely positive that…"

The human chuckled and batted Ford's arm. "Bugger off, you idiot, or you'll be late!" he ordered, affectionately. The Betelgeusian narrowed his eyes, scanning the human's features for any sign of falsehood, and then grinned, clasped his arm briefly and dashed off, grabbing his satchel on the way out.

Arthur waited until he was sure his friend was gone before he collapsed into a chair, hacking violently as a coughing fit swept over him. The problem was much worse than he'd let on- he didn't want Ford to worry, not now that things were almost back to normal. The doctors he'd spoken to had performed tests and run scans and informed him of the severity of the situation- if he didn't keep taking the daily doses of medication, there was a high risk of…

No. Don't think about it. The human wiped his hands on his clothes and got a glass of water to soothe his sore throat as he left the room- he had work to do, editing his latest reviews for the _Guide._ He tried to ignore the ache in his muscles and the burn of his abused lungs. It would go away, with time. It always did.

It usually did.

* * *

When Ford got back to their temporary shared apartment after the meeting with his editor (which had gone very well considering that aforementioned editor didn't technically exist and his non-existent personality made Ford want to chew broken glass and rusty nails) he was instantly aware that something was wrong. He knew that Arthur should have been working, and that usually meant he would be able to hear the tap of fingers on a keyboard and the occasional frustrated yell of a human unsuccessfully trying to work unfamiliar technology. But there was nothing- it was completely silent. 

It didn't remain so for long. Ford was just striding through the halls when he heard it- similar to what he'd heard that morning- deep, wet, hacking coughs. He sped up and burst into Arthur's room, stopping dead in shock at the sight that met his eyes. Arthur was bent double in his chair, shuddering as those horrible, stomach wrenching coughs assaulted him. His skin was pale and beaded with sweat and he drew in ragged gulps of air between each fit, fighting to breathe properly. Ford stared in horror at the long-fingered hands clasped in front of Arthur's mouth: they were covered in blood, rich crimson trails dripping over slender fingers, carrying with them the tiny sparks of the human's life.

"Arthur!" he shouted, rushing forwards to support the weak man. Instinctively, Ford drew his friend into his arms, holding him, soothing him, trying to ride out the storm. He clenched his stronger form around that of the human, stilling the savage convulsions.

Arthur's coughing fit eventually let up and he looked at Ford out of dull, pain-filled, devastatingly accepting eyes. "I couldn't tell you," he murmured, his voice hoarse and rasping. His breath was shallow and rapid, wheezing in his throat. He slumped in Ford's arms, unable to hold his own weight. His hands spasmed weakly as he tried to grip the material of Ford's jacket.

Ford stared aghast at the frail spectre that had replaced his friend. "Arthur…?" he whispered, fearfully.

The human pushed his head against his friend's chest, his eyelids fluttering with sudden tiredness. "I'm fine," he croaked, a sick parody of a comforter. "I'm fine. I just need…rest." With that, he sank into oblivion.

_

* * *

In a room full of whispers, a devoted friend sits a vigil._

Ford rubbed his eyes tiredly, keeping his gaze fixed on the bed where his friend lay sleeping. The emergency medic he'd frantically called out had told him what was wrong with his friend. He couldn't believe it. How? How could it have happened?

The still form shifted and his attention focused on it. Arthur groaned softly in his sleep, moving uncomfortably as he began to wake up. Grey eyes blinked open and the human glanced in bleary confusion at Ford. The Betelgeusian moved his chair closer to the bed. "How are you feeling?" he asked, reaching out a hand to check Arthur's temperature. "Honestly, this time."

Arthur smiled ruefully. "Like someone who's just coughed up their lungs?" he suggested as Ford helped him into a sitting position. He took the offered glass of water gratefully and sipped at it sparingly. He fixed a no-nonsense gaze on the Betelgeusian. "So, what did they tell you? I assume the sawbones have been involved?"

Ford wasn't surprised by the flippancy of his friend's tone. It was typical of the human to face a difficult issue by trying to joke his way out of it. "They…they said it was a Sexually Transmitted Infection," he said, deciding to meet the issue head on.

The human faltered and looked down at the bed sheets. "So much for patient confidentiality," he murmured, softly.

"An STI, Arthur. One that is particularly common to the fox-like inhabitants of Sirius B," Ford was having difficulty keeping his tone level.

Arthur glanced up sharply, sudden realisation dawning on his face. Their eyes met. Electric blue locked with dreamy grey. Tension sparked between the two beings, flaring brighter and brighter as a turmoil of emotion built in both of them. Ford asked the question that dominated his mind, the question that had plagued him as his friend lay in dreams. "How?"

Arthur told him. He talked about the night that Ford had staggered in, drunker than he'd ever been, vomiting the poison from his stomach. He talked about soothing the pain in his friend. He talked about the approach of the intruder. He talked about the hideous, degrading pain of the merciless rape and his conviction to bring his friend out the depression that had caused all of their troubles.

When he'd finished, the human shrugged. "After a couple of weeks I started feeling ill. The coughing started and I began to get headaches. I put it down to stress and tiredness, but even when…things…got better, the symptoms continued to get worse. So I booked myself in for an appointment whilst you were at one of your sessions with the psychiatrists. You know the result."

"Me?" Ford whispered, incredulous. "It's all because of me?" For the first time in weeks, he felt a sudden desire for that cruel embrace that comforted and cut. He shut his eyes tight, quashing the desire for alcohol, beating back the voices of rampant ghosts. He felt a hand on his arm, and then he was on the bed, hugging Arthur with desperation he'd never have thought possible.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he repeated, again and again as tears began to splash from his eyes. Arthur returned the frantic embrace, gripping the Betelgeusian as if he was the only thing that mattered in the Universe.

"It's alright. You do a lot for a person when you're in love," the human crooned. "And its not like they don't have a cure. They just have to match it to my genetic structure. In a couple of weeks I'll be completely cured. It's just a damned pain in the arse at the moment. You helped, you know," Arthur continued. "Having to look after you helped me deal with the ra…the whole thing. You took up so much of my time, and all I could think about was making you better. I didn't have time to be sad or depressed or humiliated, which I believe I was supposed to."

After the long speech, the Earthman gave a few feeble coughs and grabbed for another drink of water, keeping one arm around Ford.

The Betelgeusian sniffed as his crying slowly stopped. His mind processed what Arthur had just said. "Wait…Arthur, you're…you're in love with me?"

"Erm…Did I…"

"A Freudian slip?" Ford teased, weakly, his brain still reeling from the day's events.

"Well…"

Ford snuggled closer. "I suppose we'll just have to recover together then. After all, I don't want to break your heart as well as your health."

Arthur smiled a true smile of Cheshire cat proportions. "That wouldn't do at all," he said, laughter bubbling through every word. He yawned hugely, curling up into Ford as he did so.

"Indeed it wouldn't. Now get some sleep, Arthur. We both have demons to get rid of."

That was the day it began. And as the headlong descent becomes a heart-stopping rise to true grace, I suppose the one thing I can say is this- sometimes, just sometimes, it is happily ever after.

* * *

If anyone wants UNhappily ever after, just let me know and I'll post an alternate end. But, like my new 'ideas factory' Rowana S, I am a sucker for a happy ending. And I know its OOC and random and improbable. And there was probably more angst, more pain, more tears. But I'm not going to be the one doing that to them- I've done enough. 


	3. Let a Falling Star Die

Disclaimer: I do not own HHGTTG. I repeat the previous warnings- this is a **DARK** fic.

Thank you to my reviewers: Kayu Silver, HurriCanine, Rowana S, Les Lapins Mauvais, Captain Oz, spirals, ElvenPirate41, tb884 and elfgirl. Much love and gratitude to each of you, and to anyone else who was kind enough to read this.

This is the **SAD ending** Just so's you know. I wrote it for those who requested it, bien sur. So, this is for you, HurriCanine, Kayu Silver and tb884.

This is not a continuation- this is the **alternate ending**. Just so its clear (prepares for flames)

* * *

When he awoke, the room was dark. He lay in the warm embrace of the soft bed sheets, luxuriating in the delicious guilt of staying in bed for too long. He remained burrowed for a while, then stretched and snapped his fingers, causing the lights to fade into brightness. He yawned, blinking sleepily, and dragged himself out of his miniature kingdom to grab a shower. 

After being pelted for a good fifteen minutes by boiling hot water and massaged with specially installed pressure pads, Ford Prefect reluctantly exited the cubicle and dressed. He grinned, feeling Betelgeusian at last, and left the room in search of breakfast, Arthur, or both.

Breezing into the kitchen, his grin widened when he saw a plate of blue scrambled eggs laid out for him. He hurried to the table and tucked in happily, making appreciative noises at the explosion of flavour. He glanced up and gave the 'chef' a thumb's up.

The 'chef' snorted. "I'm surprised you even noticed I was here," Arthur said, snarkily, to which Ford chuckled.

"You don't have to do this," he reminded the Earthman. "I am quite capable of getting my own food."

Arthur snorted again. "You can burn salad, just by being in the same room as it. Shut up and eat."

Ford shut up and ate. It had taken weeks, arduous, agonising weeks of work, tears, shame, pain and anger, but here they were. Back to the way it had been- the gently scathing teasing, the not quite harmonious co-existence of a couple of hitchhikers, trying to see the Universe for less than thirty Alterian dollars a day. They didn't talk about it- they'd done enough of that to last a lifetime- but Ford knew he would probably be dead if not for the Earthman.

Arthur had been his rock, his support, his slave master and his comforter as he'd fought against his addiction and the depression that had rotted him from the inside like a foul cancer. The fire of his life had been re-kindled, but it hadn't been easy. There had been screaming fits, raging angry shouting matches. He'd said things he still regretted, things that he knew had bitten deep into his friend's being and lodged like the creeping fingers of Jack Frost in the delicate heart of a winter bloom. But it was over. He had his job back, he was once again a fully paid _Guide_ researcher, and his friend had been roped in for the job that on one else wanted- restaurant critic. Something menial and dull that suited the Earthman down to the ground.

The Betelgeusian glanced up from his meal as Arthur started coughing. The human had been having throat trouble for the past few weeks, something Ford had at first not noticed, so involved was he in his own struggle. The human assured him it was nothing serious, that he'd spoken to doctors about it, but nevertheless Ford was a little worried. Arthur smiled weakly when his coughing fit ended and reached into a cupboard for a small bottle of viscous purple stuff, from which he took a spoonful, grimacing as he swallowed.

Ford watched him, his brow furrowed. "Look are you sure you're alright?" he asked, eventually. "You don't sound…"

"I'm fine!" Arthur reassured, turning his back to Ford as he replaced the medicine in the cupboard. "Aside from the decided lack of tea anywhere in this frotting galaxy!" The words were spoken with amused acceptance, but there was a rough edge to Arthur's voice that hadn't been there before. There was also a strange hesitance to his movement, the Betelgeusian realised, as if the human was judging his strength before any action.

Ford stood, carrying the plate to the cupboard that stored, organised and cleaned all items of crockery, and was also very interested in country dancing. No one had ever asked it why, since it had no legs, but it lived in hope of anyone asking, and it chirruped happily as he placed the grimy utensils in it. That done, Ford checked his watch. "I have to go see my editor," he said, suddenly remembering the mid-morning meeting. He dithered for a moment.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "So why are you still here?"

"Are you absolutely positive that…"

The human chuckled and batted Ford's arm. "Bugger off, you idiot, or you'll be late!" he ordered, affectionately. The Betelgeusian narrowed his eyes, scanning the human's features for any sign of falsehood, and then grinned, clasped his arm briefly and dashed off, grabbing his satchel on the way out.

Arthur waited until he was sure his friend was gone before he collapsed into a chair, hacking violently as a coughing fit swept over him. The problem was much worse than he'd let on- he didn't want Ford to worry, not now that things were almost back to normal. The doctors he'd spoken to had performed tests and run scans and informed him of the severity of the situation- even when he took the daily doses of medication, there was a high risk of…

No. Don't think about it. The human wiped his hands on his clothes and got a glass of water to soothe his sore throat as he left the room- he had work to do, editing his latest reviews for the _Guide._ He tried to ignore the ache in his muscles and the burn of his abused lungs. It would go away, with time. It always did.

It usually did.

* * *

When Ford got back to their temporary shared apartment after the meeting with his editor (which had gone very well considering that aforementioned editor didn't technically exist and his non-existent personality made Ford want to chew broken glass and rusty nails) he was instantly aware that something was wrong. He knew that Arthur should have been working, and that usually meant he would be able to hear the tap of fingers on a keyboard and the occasional frustrated yell of a human unsuccessfully trying to work unfamiliar technology. But there was nothing- it was completely silent. 

It didn't remain so for long. Ford was just striding through the halls when he heard it- similar to what he'd heard that morning- deep, wet, hacking coughs. He sped up and burst into Arthur's room, stopping dead in shock at the sight that met his eyes. Arthur was bent double in his chair, shuddering as those horrible, stomach-wrenching coughs assaulted him. His skin was pale and beaded with sweat and he drew in ragged gulps of air between each fit, fighting to breathe properly. Ford stared in horror at the long-fingered hands clasped in front of Arthur's mouth: they were covered with blood, rich crimson trails dripping over slender fingers, carrying with them the tiny sparks of the human's life.

"Arthur!" he shouted, rushing forwards to support the weak man. Instinctively, Ford drew his friend into his arms, holding him, soothing him, trying to ride out the storm. He clenched his stronger form around that of the human, stilling the savage convulsions.

Arthur's coughing fit eventually let up and he looked at Ford out of dull, pain-filled, devastatingly accepting eyes. "I couldn't tell you," he murmured, his voice hoarse and rasping. His breath was shallow and rapid, wheezing in his throat. He slumped in Ford's arms, unable to hold his own weight. His hands spasmed weakly as he tried to grip the material of Ford's jacket.

Ford stared aghast at the frail spectre that had replaced his friend. "Arthur…?" he whispered, tears welling in fearful eyes.

The human pushed his head against his friend's chest, his eyelids fluttering with sudden tiredness. "I'm fine," he croaked, a sick parody of a comforter. "I'm fine. I just need…rest." With that, he sank into oblivion.

_

* * *

In a room full of whispers, a devoted friend sits a vigil._

Ford rubbed his eyes tiredly, keeping his gaze fixed on the bed where his friend lay sleeping. The emergency medic he'd frantically called out had just injected a purple substance into Arthur's arm and was putting away his syringes and packs of chemicals.

"Well?" Ford asked, his voice sounding weak and tremulous.

The medic sighed and moved to sit in front of the Betelgeusian, careful not to block his view of the bed. "His condition is stable, for now. I've ascertained the cause of the coughing fits- Mr Prefect, your friend is very seriously ill. He is in the final stages of a virulent infection that deteriorates the condition of the lungs and attacks the entire respiratory system. I'm sorry."

"F-final stages? But…how have I not noticed it before?" Ford felt physically sick- how could he be so blind to his friend's suffering? For the first time in weeks, he felt a sudden desire for that cruel embrace that comforted and cut. He shut his eyes tight, quashing the desire for alcohol, beating back the voices of rampant ghosts.

"From an analysis of his blood, I've found traces of a chemical commonly used to relieve the symptoms of the infection- the only answer I can give you is that he was completely aware of his illness and has been treating it for some time."

"He knew? He knew and he didn't tell me?"

The doctor put a paw on his shoulder, a firm comforting grip. "There is one more thing. The pathogens that cause the disease are a specialised strand. The microbes originally bred on Sirius B- the canine creatures have a very strong constitution, which is why the infection is so vicious. And there is only one way the microbes can be spread."

Icy-cruel claws of dread began to rake at Ford's insides at what the doctor was implying. "How?" he asked, hoping he would be wrong, inwardly pleading that somehow it wouldn't be true.

The medic took a deep breath. "It is a sexually transmitted infection."

Ford felt his tremulous grip on his emotions weaken at the words. He buried his head in his hands, feeling the weight of the world descend on him once again. He didn't notice the doctor leaving, didn't hear his parting words. A sexually transmitted infection. How had it happened? Had Arthur been a willing companion or was it…?

No. It was too horrifying to contemplate. Ford took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to gather himself. He had to strong. He sat up, running nervous hands through his wiry curls, and looked again at the bed. In sleep, with none of his shields, Arthur looked weak and vulnerable. His skin was so pale it almost seemed translucent and each breath he took was quavering and painful. There were deep lines of exhaustion and suffering scarring his face. The human lay completely still, as if the life had been drained from him. He seemed to be fading before Ford's eyes. The Betelgeusian shook his head, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

A soft husky voice interrupted his melancholy. "F-Ford?"

Ford's gaze snapped to the bed, where Arthur was wearily coming awake. The Betelgeusian jumped up and went to sit on the bed, gently but firmly helping the human sit up and re-arranging the pillows to support him. Arthur settled back and fixed the shorter man with a confused, questioning scrutiny.

"You collapsed," Ford said in what he hoped was a steady voice. "I had to call a doctor."

Arthur's eyes widened and he glanced down at the small dressing on his arm.

"Yeah, he injected you. Arthur," Ford steeled himself. "He…he said some pretty scary stuff about your…condition."

The Earthman was now staring fixedly at his hands, fidgeting with the edge of the sheets.

"Arthur?" the Betelgeusian pleaded, needing an explanation, needing to know _why_.

The room was silent for a couple of beats. "I suppose he told you about my illness." It was a statement, not a question.

"He did. Why didn't you?"

Arthur coughed pathetically and reached blindly for the bedside cabinet. Ford took the ever-present glass of water and lifted it to the human's lips, allowing him to take a few sips. The Earthman quirked a quick smile of thanks and then fell back into the pillows, unable to hold his own weight.

"How do you feel?" Ford asked, trying to fill the deathly quiet.

His friend chuckled bitterly. "Like I've had the words of Vogon poetry branded on to my chest with red-hot irons."

Ford winced and Arthur touched a hand to his arm. "Sorry, I didn't mean…I think I should explain."

So the human told him. He talked about the night that Ford had staggered in, drunker than he'd ever been, vomiting the poison from his stomach. He talked about soothing the pain in his friend. He talked about the approach of the intruder. He talked about the hideous, degrading pain of the merciless rape and his conviction to bring his friend out the depression that had caused all of their troubles.

When he'd finished, the human shrugged. "After a couple of weeks I started feeling ill. The coughing started and I began to get headaches. I put it down to stress and tiredness, but even when…things…got better, the symptoms continued to get worse. So I booked myself in for an appointment whilst you were at one of your sessions with the psychiatrists. You know the result."

"Me? It's because of me?" Ford looked at the hand that still rested, quivering, on his arm and covered it with his own. In his mind's eye, he saw his flesh become stained with the choked-up blood if his friend. He might as well have stabbed the human in the chest…

Arthur's brow furrowed and he tugged lightly on Ford's sleeve, catching the Betelgeusian's attention. "This was not your fault," he said, firmly, punctuating his words with a squeeze of his hand- all the action he felt capable of. "You didn't plan it, you weren't aware of it and there is nothing you could have done to stop it."

"But if I hadn't…"

"No buts. You didn't ask for this to happen, you didn't intend for it to happen and you feel regret and guilt about it now. For me, that's enough." Arthur slumped a little as his tiredness caught up with him. "Even angels fall," he joked, recalling how Ford had described his role in the Betelgeusian's recovery.

Ford's eyes were bright with tears. "You're dying."

"So were you," came the cryptic reply. "I couldn't…let you d'stroy yourself."

The Betelgeusian had to move closer to catch the by now almost inaudible words. Shocked by his friend's frailty, he instinctively wrapped an arm around the human and gently pulled him into an embrace. "Why?" he asked softly, fearing the answer.

"S'obvious, if you look," Arthur slurred, his words running into one another as his tongue refused to co-operate. It was becoming harder and harder to catch his breath and he heard Ford shushing him as his wheezing intakes of air quickened. As he was brought into a warm hug, he was aware of the world moving further and further away, all sights, sounds and smells fading to become faint and distant. He could feel the texture of Ford's jumper against his cheek and he fought to keep from falling asleep. "Ford," he whispered fearfully, his mouth feeling numb and clumsy. "Why's it so dark?"

"Sh, it's okay Arthur," the familiar voice soothed him. There was a tremulous note to it, and Arthur wondered why Ford was crying. "Go to sleep, I'm right here. Go to sleep."

* * *

Ford couldn't stop the sobs as Arthur slumped in his arms. The rasping, desperate breaths slowed and the last breath of air rattled from the human's throat. Ford felt amber tears ooze from his eyes and burn toxins down his cheeks. He heard again the intoxicating song of the Succubus, a whispering seduction that begged him to lose his fears in her embrace that cut as it pretended to comfort. 

He turned his head to see the bottle on the bedside cabinet, kept there as a test of his will. In his mind, he saw glass shatter against a wall and lie in deadly, beautiful shards on the floor, drowning in the poison of the amber liquid. He licked his lips, remembering how all the agony in the world would crystallise into perfect sense thanks to the blessed demon. He felt the dead weight of the lifeless body in his arms, felt the weight of his guilt grabbing at his spirit.

He reached out.

And an angel fell.


End file.
